


Softer Than the Rain

by seperis



Category: Smallville
Genre: First Time, M/M, PWP, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-12-16
Updated: 2002-12-16
Packaged: 2017-11-01 08:35:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/354453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seperis/pseuds/seperis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's what he wants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Softer Than the Rain

**Author's Note:**

> Happy birthday Bethy! _hugs_ Many, many more good ones to come. Thanks to Isilya and Pearl-o for audiencing.

It's been raining for hours. Drizzle to rain to downpour in under an hour, and the ground went from hard to mud to liquid in three. The truck's under cover--Lex sent someone down an hour ago to move it into the garage. The yard's a black lake, shivering with every drop of rain that hits. 

Dad didn't even mutter when Clark called and said he couldn't leave tonight. Clark might be invulnerable, but the truck is not. 

Lex is more relaxed than Clark's ever seen him--something to do with night air or maybe the lack of his dad in the castle. Like, Clark never realized before the difference between Lex-with-Lionel and Lex-without until tonight, when Lex ignored the brandy and was drinking water, and wow, it's been awhile since Clark's seen that. 

Not the study tonight, or even the den--this easy sprawl across Lex's bed, and all the doors are open, letting cool, damp air pass through every room, breaking the stifling thickness of downstairs. There's a TV hidden in that ancient--armoire?--thing, and Lex is this languid presence, reclined against a pile of pillows and changing channels with elegant flickers of his thumb. Shoes discarded somewhere on the floor somewhere out in the hall. 

"Anytime you want to settle on a channel, feel free," Clark murmurs from the foot of the bed. A purloined pillow is trapped under crossed arms, grabbed before Lex started collecting them with an eye toward hoarding. A socked foot hits Clark's calf, half-hearted at best. 

"One thousand, five hundred sixty channels and nothing to watch." Low, sleepy voice, as thick as the humidity they're escaping. Clark turns his head just enough to look back, aware of the brush of the foot against his leg with every shift of his body. Like Lex might fall asleep any moment now. 

"You've _counted_?" 

Half-closed eyes fix on him briefly, a flash of energy just beneath in shades of electric blue. Sharp and sudden, fading like lightning in a night sky. "Yes. Just now." 

Clark can't help grinning, resettling on the pillow, feeling the same slow, wet lethargy crawling up through his skin, sinking into his bones. Cool enough to keep him awake, but not quite enough to keep him active. He'd like a blanket. Something to curl up under and let himself be lulled into somnolence by the flickers of the television's screen. "Lex?" 

Long, long wait for an answer that's more noise than reply. "Hmm?" 

"I'm cold." 

Everything's slow tonight--Lex shifting his pillow mound off the comforter, pulling it down, and Clark flashes on his father's face if he could see this. Not what he needs at the moment, maybe, but it's funny enough to make him giggle in some slightly drunken-girl way, like the kids on TV at slumber parties. Pillow under his arm, he crawls up the bed and drops down--this huge bed that could probably sleep, like, twenty, but just him and Lex and Lex's pillows. "You have a lot of pillows, Lex." 

They've both been awake too long--Lex is always up by five these days, weekend and weekdays, plant to manage and world to conquer, or something. Clark was up at four thirty because Dad said it would rain. Clark really hadn't believed him. Must-see TV has come and gone with the daylight. There's not even a moon tonight for ambient light. 

The bed barely shifts with Lex's weight sliding under the covers--too far away, maybe, a distant stretch of smooth, soft cotton that makes Clark want to bury his face in it and never come out. "I like pillows." 

Flicker of a movie, something black and white. One pillow isn't enough--Clark moves close enough to borrow the edge of the mound, keeping his own safe from acquisition. He feels Lex's glance more than sees it, and flicker again, Comedy Central. A parade of colors and sounds that blur into something that vaguely resembles modern art before Clark jerks up to a completely dark room and thunder ringing in his ears. 

Lex is asleep beside him, neat and somehow small, a mound of sleeping CEO still in his business clothes, creased linen and soft wool. 

It's been a long day, a longer night. Clark relaxes, listening to the rain outside. Big storm, building for awhile, and drought had been a real possibility before tonight. He thinks of the cows he and Dad brought under shelter this afternoon, the storm windows locked at the house. In the barn, he'd hear the rain like nails on the roof, hard and merciless, loud. Even the television couldn't cover the sounds. 

The castle's like this huge pillow, muffling everything into indistinct murmurs. Like the biggest storm of the year's a spring shower. 

Nothing can cover that thunder, though, and the electric shot across the sky lights the room briefly in stark white--a rug, a dresser, a pair of discarded socks by the door. Gone again with a shiver of stone, though the castle's too huge to shake just for this. 

Lex sleeps like it's any night in the world. Clark can see the remote in the next flash, forgotten when it fell from a limp hand. Smooth lines of his fingers, indifferently cut nails, callused tips. There's a winding ink stain from forefinger down to the base of his thumb, painted black, probably blue in light. Lex likes blue pens. 

The next strike's hugem with a shake of the castle, and Clark jumps, knows it, feels the give of the bed when he comes down, and the flush burns hot across his face, even if no one can see. He's _years_ out of the kid who was scared of storms, who ran to his parents room in indistinct memories of a different kind of storm. Years out of nightlights and comforting stuffed animals and hiding beneath the comforter and wanting contact, any kind. His body doesn't agree, though, reaching out like a ten year old and touching Lex's shoulder. Human contact something necessary, needed. 

Just a moment of smooth linen, hard muscle like stone beneath, a moment Clark's fingers cling, and Lex is as cleanly awake as any animal, sleep a distant memory. 

Earlier, Lionel Luthor had been in Lex's study, Mom at his elbow like a bodyguard. She'd been reading something to him, a report, whatever, and Lex had been at his desk, working on his computer. Clark had come in with deliveries, got a smile from his mom, a vague nod from Mr. Luthor, and then Lex had looked up, shocking jerk of attention like a snap. Something you could feel, maybe, something that charged the air like lightning. 

Electric, current, making connection with a jolt he can feel all over, static raising the fine hairs on his arms and the back of his neck. 

Like this. 

"Clark." Not a question, not even surprised. Like Lex is used to this, waking up at night. Like Lex is used to Clark being the one to wake him. 

Like this isn't something they've never done. 

"Thunder," Clark says in a voice that doesn't sound anything like his. Too low, maybe, respecting the silence that's too still, too quiet. Like waiting for the next strike of lightning. "Sorry." 

"S'okay." 

He hasn't moved his hand. Not really. Air-light press of fingers to linen, not much of a touch, but he didn't pull away and neither did Lex, so it's still there. He looks at his hand, wondering at the line of his fingers shaping over bone, palm fitting like it knows the curve, a body memory he doesn't have. Slow slide down the hard muscle of Lex's arm, and Clark realizes he's rolled too close, no excuse. 

The linen stops just above his elbow--rolled up sleeves. Clark remembers hours ago in the kitchen, the stifling heat and humidity closing around them like this huge fist, thickening the air in their lungs. Sweat sticking his t-shirt to his back, and Lex casually unbuttoning each sleeve, talking about the fall of kings with an ironic smile while listening to the sound of Lionel Luthor's helicopter disappearing into the distance. 

Lex's skin is smoother than the linen. Silkier, too. More weathered outer arm, even silkier inside. Clark's thumb traces the path of blood moving sluggishly beneath, fingers pushing the comforter down and away. 

This long line of bone, barely covered in sleek muscle. A delicate wrist his fingers can wrap around so easily, and his hands look so big, so coarse in comparison. Dark skin against pale, contrast of light on a dark sky. 

It's--familiar in a way, how easily he can wrap his fingers through Lex's, lifting, studying the long, elegant fingers just barely smaller than his own. Fine bones that wrap bonelessly through his, exposed palm, hard when his fingers skim it. 

This catch of breath brings his head up, and he hadn't realized--God, how _close_ he is. Close enough to brush his mouth over the rough skin of Lex's palm. Close enough to breathe in the sleepy scent of him, ink, warm cotton, and the traces of Lex himself beneath it all. 

Lex, who looks--not surprised, not asleep, not any word Clark knows. Like maybe there's no word for this, and even Lex should know the word. 

This--this touch, and Clark looks back down, Lex's hand still in his. 

"Clark." So soft, it's almost lost with the next peal of thunder, shaking the castle, shaking the bed, but nothing shakes Clark like Lex's voice. The question just beneath that Lex isn't asking, the answer that Clark doesn't have any idea how to give. 

He's never touched anyone like this--not Lana, not Chloe, not Jessie, not even Kyla, though he can taste her sometimes, this memory of flavor on the edge of his tongue, like something wild. He catches it at night, in that twilight between sleep and waking. Remembers how small and delicate she was, how light, like air. Almost insubstantial, like some distant dream of reality. 

He's tasting skin--hard skin, real skin, light and salty, shaping Lex's hand to his face, tightening his fingers because Lex could pull away. Should pull away, maybe, but no resistance, no _anything_. 

Too--something. Clark lifts his head and Lex's hand follows, fingers pressing into his skin. 

"I want to kiss you," Lex whispers, and Clark's mouth goes dry. Nods, because he can't speak, and then he's leaning forward. A soft, chaste brush of lips--Chloe in eighth grade, sparkly and bright and slick with lip gloss, but this is so much more real. More adult, maybe, when Lex holds the touch, warmth seeping between them. 

He barely hears the thunder, though it shakes the bed--or maybe that's him, shaking, shifting closer. Close enough to feel the heat of Lex's body. A little gasp--so close--and the tip Lex's tongue presses against his upper lip. Asking, so gently, skimming the line of his lips, wetting them, parting them again, withdrawing when Clark shivers, and it's not the chill of the room that makes Clark move closer. Enough for his knee to brush Lex's beneath the blanket, a not-casual brush of socked feet. 

Lex draws back, red wet lips and eyes as dark as the night outside. 

"Yes," Clark says. He knows the answer to this question. 

The second touch is firmer, and Clark lets his mouth open, wanting that brush of tongue. Lex, who uses his tongue like his pens, outlining Clark's lips in wet warmth, fine precision in slow strokes, and they've never felt so full, so heavy. Slicking his lower lip, wetting it, then slipping inside, quick, soft, lingering in the space between lips and teeth, pressing against enamel for the briefest moment before pulling back, away, and Clark catches his breath. 

Can taste Lex when he licks his lips. Utterly unlike anyone else, just like Lex, like spice and sharpness, burning on his tongue, on his mouth. Leans forward this time and mirrors what he was taught, that slow line, outline, pressure that makes Lex's mouth open for him, and he's inside, and God, the _taste_ \--condensed, utterly addictive. 

Lex's mouth, his best friends' mouth, a _guy's_ mouth.... 

Pulls back with a gasp of air, and Lex's hand leaves his face, knee pulled back. Like this chasm of cold, wet air opening between them, and Clark breathes out from the shock. 

"I was wondering," Lex says softly, and Clark feels cold in every space Lex had touched. "Clark, it's okay--" 

"Sorry, I--" It's _Lex_. Maybe this is why there aren't words, because there never have been when it's Lex. "I don't--" 

"It's okay." 

It's not. Distance isn't always physical, not with Lex. Not when he uses space like a weapon, like armor, and Clark aches for the Lex who sleep made possible, that a touch made approachable. He can't reach over this, through it--his hands won't move and his body's frozen. 

"Let's get some sleep." And a simple roll shouldn't be that final, but Lex is on his back, eyes closed, the comforter like a wall to close him out, and Clark takes a shallow breath, clenched fists against his thighs. 

He knows he won't sleep. 

* * *

Until he does. 

It's not thunder this time--Clark opens on night, still and murmuring with the voices of the rain, or early morning, maybe--he can't tell. Still shaded dark, vague ambient light from somewhere, though God knows where, and Lex seems further away, the mound of pillows between them. Curled on his side facing the far wall, one small pillow beneath his head. 

Clark can still taste him, lingering on the back of his tongue. 

Still raining, like it'll never stop. He wonders if Noah felt like this, listening from inside that great boat and considering the end of the world. Probably not in this context, vaguely blasphemous in fact, but it makes him smile. 

Smile fades when he takes in the armored line of Lex's back, like an unbreachable wall. 

What was he going to say, though? If he'd been given days, he'd still be stumbling out meaningless words that wouldn't make any sense, because explaining isn't something he knows how to do, ever has. 

It's just-- 

"Lex." 

The line between sleeping and waking might be invisible to anyone that doesn't know Lex, but Clark can see it in the spine, instant tension that's almost palpable before Lex slowly rolls over to look at him. Like nothing happened, perhaps, and that way of returning to before that's impossible, Lex has _got_ to know that. 

"Can we--try that again?" 

Now he surprises Lex--of course, it would be now. 

"Clark--" Refute and deny, or--maybe not, but Clark can't take chances on Lex's head, whatever passes for thought. Just--just _can't_ , and it's the hardest thing in his life, narrowing the space until they're close enough to share breath. 

"I can still taste you, Lex." 

Doesn't wait--surprise brings down the wall, and Clark leans in. A kiss--a _real_ kiss, like Lana and like Kyla, but completely different. The scar on Lex's lip that he feels with his tongue and the tilt of his head and Lex _touches_ him, just fingers resting on his face, warm and light. 

Lex, who's passive for all of the time it takes Clark to get a breath, then it's--heat and wet, he's on his back and Lex's tongue is in his mouth, still slow, almost relentless, like Lex is marking territory, laying claim, or just making a statement. 

If Clark wants this, he's going to _get_ it. 

He can touch now, too--linen-covered shoulders, smooth skin of neck and head, tracing with his fingertips that can't get over how smooth it is. Skidding his fingers, pressing in, opening his mouth so Lex gets all the access he wants. The bunch of muscle in Lex's back that his fingers trace, linen too slick, not giving Clark any purchase, and that slides his hands down, pulling at smooth cloth, seeking skin. It's sudden when Lex sits up, knees pressed to the bed, and Clark licks his lips, clinging to the taste, raising himself on one elbow. 

Watches breathlessly as Lex unbuttons each button, a slow, unwitting tease of light, bare skin underneath stark white linen with the flow of the material. Pulled loose from the pants, and he gets to the bottom, but Clark can't wait. Sits up and kisses again--something he knows, something to ground him to do something he doesn't, a tentative hand sliding inside, linen brushing the back of his hand like a ghost, and Lex feels-- 

No hair. Anywhere. Hard and warm and soft and completely not what he would have expected if he'd ever thought to expect. There's--too much space between them, and he straddles long thighs, breathing out at the look on Lex's face. 

Like shock when you aren't used to feeling it. Like fear if you don't want to admit it. Like want when you have no idea how to hide it. 

Warm hand on the back of Clark's neck, under his hair, pressing, and Clark shuts his eyes and lets Lex take over. Hot, wet kiss, opening his mouth wide, and Lex makes him shake with just the tip of his tongue moving so fast, so light, thrusting inside in a way that makes Clark's cock harden, thighs tense. A shift and they're chest to chest, and he can feel the fast, hard beat of Lex's heart through his shirt, echoed in every shiver of his skin. 

Too--too many clothes, and Lex seems to get that, good, _great_. So great, when both hands slide down his back, fingertips pressing inward like he's leaving a path to follow later. Easy pull of an already loose t-shirt from his jeans, palms cool and hard on the skin of his back, slipping up beneath. Like being _felt_ from the skin out, studied, _enjoyed_. 

Has to break to breathe, and Clark hates to do it, gulping in air like he's never had it before, but Lex's mouth is soft on his jaw, harder on his throat. Sucking patterns into his skin that Clark can almost see when he shuts his eyes again, tilting his head back at the wet brush of a tongue over the sensitive skin of his collarbone. Fixing in the hollow of his throat, licking steadily, another slow, sucking kiss into his shoulder, pushing the collar of his shirt aside. 

"I can--take it off," Clark hears himself say, and the words sound okay and even make sense. The hesitation's so brief Clark thinks he imagines it, before both big hands are on his waist, then gone, twisting in soft cotton, pulling up, and Clark lifts his arms automatically, barely glancing to see where his shirt goes, because Lex is looking at him. 

_Looking_ , and a brand new word should go here, because no one looks at anything like that. Hands hard on his waist, and he had no idea Lex was _that_ strong until the mattress is firm and cool and soft against his heated skin, and Lex is on his knees between his legs, braced on one hand over him, just watching. 

"I'm not playing," Lex says, and it's dark, like night, and dangerous, like standing in a lightning storm. Clark's cock jumps at the promise underneath it, and the warning. I'm not playing, Lex says, but he means, I'm not playing with _you_. You'd better know what the fuck you're doing. 

"Neither am I." Easier to say it than he thought, and he got the words right. Lex's free hand runs down his chest, fingers marking points of interest, watching Clark arch at the slow brush against a nipple, achingly hard in the cold air. Watching him shiver when fingers trace over his stomach, outline his navel, edging his jeans in a tease that makes his breath catch. He reaches for skin again--Lex, sexy and sophisticated even in an unbuttoned shirt, flushed and eyes dark with so much want he can't look too long. 

Pulls Lex down, and oh, God, he can feel Lex, cock against his, hard and hard and pushing against him. Lex, who makes a low, almost pained sound, and Clark wants to pull his hands out of Lex's shirt, but they're tangled in fine linen and Lex feels too good to ever let go. Hungry, hot mouth covering his again, fingers pinching one nipple and it makes him jerk, shuddering, and then--God, it's Lex's _mouth_. 

Sucking and biting, tongue hot and wet and it feels huge, sensitizing skin that's already electric, and a hand on his hip guides him when Lex starts to grind against him--like clothes are nothing, less than nothing, he can _feel_ Lex and it's so hot. So nothing like anything, even Jessie, then Lex is on his other nipple and Clark can't do anything but hold on, curving his fingers over Lex's shoulderblades and breathe air that's cold and wet and too thick. 

Too--something. 

"Clark." Whispered, and Lex lifts his head, kissing him again, and the hand on his hip leaves, guidance complete, Clark follows the rhythm he was taught. Sparks glisten behind his eyes with every breath, and Lex is murmuring things against his mouth, his cheek, his neck, teeth pressing into flesh and it doesn't hurt, it just feels _incredible_. "You taste--Jesus, you _are_ \--" 

"God." No words. Bucking up into Lex breaks off anything like coherent thought, and it's all building like heat along his spine. So close, just like this, Lex grinding against him, sharp, hot twists of his hips and Lex braces himself on both elbows, staring down at him, holding his eyes. "I--" 

"You're almost there." Hot, jerky breaths between the words, and surprisingly gentle fingers stroke back his hair. They're both sweating, drying cold on their skin. "I've wanted to see you like this." 

"Lex." The only word that makes any sense. Trying not to hold on too tight, buck too hard, but he wants it so much. So close to Lex, like no one is, maybe, like he can't imagine anyone else could _ever_ be, not Victoria or Desiree or anyone, and the haze of jealousy just makes it hotter. He wants to think it's just for him. This hot willingness, this need, this feeling, and it's _not_ , someone else has seen this, done this with Lex. Touched him and felt him and tasted him. 

Felt him touch them and God... 

"Clark, yes, you're there, just--" Breathed, and just _watching_ , and it should be embarrassing but it's not, fingers stroking his hair back almost tenderly. Another buck _up_ \-- 

Liquid hot rush, it almost _hurts_ to let go like that, but so good. God, so good to feel Lex, moving faster, little aftershocks making him shiver with every thrust of his hips, then Lex just--stops. Body and breath, wide eyes and parted lips, and Clark thinks he sees the ghost of his name forming on Lex's mouth before the blue eyes close and his head goes down. Can _feel_ the jerks of Lex's cock, more tiny shocks of feeling, like static against his skin. Forehead pressed to Clark's shoulder, hot panted breath and the slow, soft sounds of coming down. 

Not moving away, even after they're both still. 

"Clark," Lex whispers, and there's so much in his voice. Lazy pleasure and questions and answers, too, and Clark holds on tighter, Lex a boneless sprawl of warm body against him. 

Long, long minutes before Lex shifts up, fingers in his hair again, thumb slicking along his forehead, coming away wet with sweat. 

"Take off your clothes," Lex says, so soft it makes Clark ache, somehow warm and sweet and so here. "Do you want to change?" 

Naked in Lex's bed. He shakes his head as Lex shifts up, close enough to reach out and touch, stripping unself-consciously from pants and boxers and shirt, closes his eyes when Lex does the same to him. 

Huge, huge mound of pillows ignored when Clark's coaxed under the covers by gentle, insistent hands, and warm arms go around him, pulling him close. Long, long naked body pressed against his, so warm, and Clark can't imagine it ever being cold again. 

"I wasn't playing," Lex whispers against his hair, and Clark's chest tightens. He tangles his fingers in Lex's at his waist, breathes in the scent of cotton and night rain and sex, Lex, all over him. He never wants to move again, never leave. 

"Me either." 

Outside, it's still raining, and lightning still cuts the sky into pieces, but Clark's asleep before the thunder. 

the end 


End file.
